The Snitch
by SrslyNo
Summary: Suppose House and Wilson lived in a steampunk world, and House was the owner of a mysterious black box. Would life be different? AU. Please check warnings in first chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** AU, hybridized steampunk, minor character death, pinches of slash, different world = different RL rules. Courts and laws diverge from ours. Story does not follow canon timeline.  
 **Disclaimer:** [H]ouse isn't mine, never will be.  
 **A/N:** Written with Yarroway  & Blackmare's _Positively House/Wilson Slash Challenge_ in mind.  
 **Beta** : The awesomely talented and patient Yarroway. All remaining errors are my own.

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 _"In consequence of inventing machines, men will be devoured by them."_ —Jules Verne

.

 **Prologue**

The rooftop terrace suited summer nights. A breeze that would get lost below gently brushed his cheek like a chaste goodnight kiss. The stars, disinterested spectators, made him feel safe and less alone.

By two in the morning the solar street lamps had dimmed. The last activity triggering the sensors was a shuffling old man walking his mangy, stiff-legged poodle. The overhead buzz of broad-hipped commuter airships blotting out entire constellations as they floated by had ended shortly after midnight. Sometimes a high-pitched squeal from a bat or mouse pierced the wall of nocturnal white noise erected by frogs and crickets, but that was as lively as it got. The sole indication of motor traffic was a ghostly trail of mist hovering above the highway in the distance.

No one would witness what he was about to do. No one would get hurt. Three objects sat upon the raised parapet before him. He drew one last puff from his dwindling cigar. Drained the last drops of bourbon from his glass. Then, inch by inch, nudged the perfectly square box to its tipping point until it plunged into the dark. The sharp crack of breaking branches and the shush of leaves followed in its wake. As an afterthought, he tugged off the chain that held a silver key from around his neck, and threw it with all his might, aiming for sewer grate across the street.

He turned in the general direction of the whisky bottle. The ambient light from his apartment outlined it and a small cluster of patio furniture. In more or less a straight line he headed toward it, determined to finish the balance before going to bed. The first half was his reward for saving idiots like himself from the blasted Snitch. The last was reserved for getting totally bombed. He wanted to spend one night blissfully unaware of how much Wilson hated him; and to be scrupulously honest, how much he hated himself.

Collapsing onto the lounge chair, he filled his glass a gentlemanly one-third. Midway to his lips he paused. Something was off. Why hadn't the clatter startled the night creatures into silence? Why hadn't he heard the screech of metal and wood contacting cement? Or a thud, if the box had soft-landed onto grass?

He scrubbed at his stubble. Tomorrow he'd send Cuddy in search of the remains, unless remembering was more than he and his future hangover could cope with.

Eyelids drooping, he drank until the glass slid from his numbed fingers.

His last thought was the image of Wilson chugging off in that stupid car of his with the tailpipe huffing clouds of steam like Puff-the-Magic-Dragon.

.

 **Chapter 1**

 _Past Imperfect_

House tossed the chalk into the tray and wiped the dusty residue from his hands onto the closest labcoat, Chase's. Since his fellow was wearing it, House's irritation came through loud and clear.

"Let's do the math, people. Three deaths in the same day. One patient." He paused to drive the point home. "Anyone think that's acceptable?"

Chase raised a finger.

"Right, nobody. Revive him and pinpoint the diagnosis, or at the very least, keep Creepy Guy alive for another twenty-four hours before he expires again and becomes even creepier."

Without a backward glance he headed for his office, noting the soft scuffle of feet beating a hasty retreat behind him.

Nearing his desk he scanned the view from his window. Lazy, pus colored clouds floated across a pale peridot sky which bled to white as it neared the horizon. They looked like a flock of freshly dipped sheep foraging in a frosty spring meadow.

Today was a good leg day. His thigh muscles mewled like a discontent kitten, not a snarling lion. He lowered himself into the chair cautiously, so not to set the frayed nerves jangling. He grabbed his notebook and recorded the team's progress. So far, the only promising candidate was his hand towel, Chase. Hard as it was for him to face the possibility, he might have to write off Cameron and Kutner in favor of new fellows.

Idly ruffling through the pages, he stopped when a slight movement caught his eye. A puff of opalescent steam evaporating in front of the window was leaving a calling card of lacy film upon the glass. House inspected the street. A car was parked at the entrance. The trademark scum could only come from one make and model, a Glof XF120, a chick car, or to be more precise, a car so safe, it was the first one purchased by parents for their little princesses.

A tingle of excitement coursed along his spine. A young woman was about to breach his domain. Normally, anyone entering through the main entrance was discouraged by an obstacle course of security: guards, locks, and the best screening techniques available. But the ongoing failures with Creepy Guy left him feeling uneasy. A pretty face would be a welcome distraction.

Twisting around, he pressed a button on his console. "Desk, buzz the visitor in." Rapidly flipping another series of toggles, a moon-faced monitor blinked into existence, displaying featureless snow, then resolving into crisp black and white images.

House frowned in disappointment as he leaned back in his chair. Not a woman, but a man had strode in, and stopped at the receptionist's desk. House tilted his head. Not a bad looking sort. The grayscale hugged the planes and shadows of the face in a loving way, but still… a man.

He pushed a switch. "Cuddy."

"On it, House. I'll get his ID and escort him outside in less than five minutes," came the brisk reply. He caught the faint squeak of her chair and nodded silent approval. No moss grew on his Number One's ample ass.

A moment later the screen displayed the two in profile, looking like models on a greeting card. Cuddy flashed a warm smile and offered the stranger a clipboard with an attached stylus. A southpaw, House noted. He pushed a series of buttons and tapped a panel, sliding it open to expose a screen. Steepling his hands, he prepared to enjoy the show.

A torrent of words scrawled down it, gaining speed as it went. Trapped in the current was an occasional photograph or an illustration. James Evan Wilson, 40, a doctor instructing at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. An oncology diploma flashed by along with, trophies, awards, pets. House was beyond nauseated by the time a stuffed teddy bear dressed in a lab coat made an appearance. He turned away from the reader in disgust. The guy was a goody-two-shoes. The sooner Cuddy sent the man packing, the better.

He viewed the monitor impatiently to gauge Cuddy's progress. Was his first impression of James Wilson incorrect? The crookedly adorable smile warming Cuddy's face suggested her mission was in jeopardy. The guy had matched her look with a uniquely appealing grin of his own and raised the ante by tilting his head. And yet, his legs were splayed in a way that suggested his feet were putting down roots. House checked the time. Six minutes and Wilson wasn't smelling freshly mowed grass yet.

So James Wilson was charming and a stubborn ass. Not that House would hold the latter against anybody. And the charm, slathered on as thickly as whip cream piled atop pumpkin pie, might be masking a manipulative nature. Perhaps the afternoon's entertainment wasn't a bust after all.

He grabbed the mic. "Cuddy."

Everyone in the lobby looked at the speakers.

"Halt the love fest and escort the visitor to my office immediately."

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	2. Chapter 2

"Put two Yankees in a room together, and in an hour they will each have gained ten dollars from the other." —Jules Verne

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House drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited for Cuddy and Doctor Tenacious to arrive. What else could he find out before he met this Wilson guy face-to-face? The console's locator indicated they were waiting for the elevator. He dialed the speed of the car down by two-thirds, and released the override button so it would stop at every floor. He had well over two minutes.

Swiftly unlocking the bottom left-hand drawer, he gingerly placed a battered leather box upon the desk. A delicately carved silver key that hung from a chain around his neck released the cover and exposed the mechanism. House reverently stroked the glossy, black enamel with his fingertips. A rare Douglas Detector. What were the chances that some old bum, case tucked under his arm, would come shambling into the same bar he was, and offer it to him for the price of a drink?

The device resembled a small skeletal typewriter, but only a quarter of the size. House unwound the cord that wrapped around the legs and plugged it into the console. From a panel inside the cover he slid out a leaf of parchment, noting that there were only two pieces left. The ink only worked on sheepskin. He made a mental note to send Chase to the old ephemera shop downtown. The owner had a passion for antique diplomas. Fortunately for House, nobody else did. They sold for a song.

With a quick flick of the wrist, he spun the knob, and the roller grabbed the sheet. A tiny light on the keyboard glowed green.

The keys moved on their own like a player piano. Vellum filled with black print. He slipped on his glasses and began reading. And smiling.

Three marriages. Two divorces. A brother who was in and out of trouble. A scandalous presentation at a medical conference causing a career setback. This was information he could definitely use.

Then there was a loud snick. The ink cartridge had flipped to red. The current marriage was about to run off the rails. He raised an eyebrow. Another union, another parting of the ways. This Wilson was either a perennial romantic or in denial about his sexuality.

The machine continued to rattle away: Depression. Burnout. Illness. House frowned. The Douglas Detector was unbeatable but overly thorough. He'd forgotten how it could suck the fun out of snooping.

The ding of the elevator sounded. Hastily shutting off the machine, he slid it uncovered into the open drawer.

By the time his quarry stood in front of him, House was calmly flipping through the pages of the latest medical journal. He had decided against the Japanese issue. It might backfire on him and look like he was showing off.

There was the unmistakable sound of a man impatiently clearing his throat. House peered over his glasses. The black, white, and grays of the monitor had resolved into a palette of living color. Although idling in a neutral zone, Wilson's ivory skin was suffused with subtle pink, his dark brown hair highlighted with bronze, and his eyes, black coffee, no sugar. The suit was an undistinguished brown somewhere between tan and mocha. A caramel-colored leather messenger bag slung from his shoulder. Five pounds had dropped from his frame since the long elevator ride, but cameras had the habit of doing that. From the long, dark stare and fractional puckering of the mouth, five pounds of charm had also been shed, replaced with unconcealed annoyance. Good.

House swiped his mug from the desk and went to the conference room. He ogled Cuddy's cleavage as he passed. She was holding the PPTH folder in a way that amplified her breasts, although her low-cut blouse was doing a fine job without any help. "Aren't there bedpans to count or edible panties to buy?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes, dropped the file on his desk, and left.

He ignored Wilson while he extracted a perfect cup of coffee from his brewer. Clad in copper and brass it was the size of a rhinoceros. Thin pipes whipped around the kettle like corset laces, circulating water through various filters and a scrounged dialysis machine. Seven fancy gauges with attractive yet completely unnecessary grid covers alerted him when the coffee was ready. One measured temperature, the second indicated water level, and a third displayed pressure. Another three backed up the primaries if any should fail. The seventh, the largest and most elaborate, Chase had labeled in neat block letters around the bezel, "Appendix." It was completely unnecessary.

On his way back, careful not to slosh any liquid over the rim, he watched from the corner of his eye if there was a reaction to his limp.

Wilson, posed with arms knitted against his chest, seemed disinterested; however, the slightly cockeyed stare emanated concern. "Were you in the Juggernaut?"

"Do I look that old?" House asked with a perfectly honed edge to his voice. Wilson's question however, was valid. His lurching gait was identical to thousands of veterans. The fourth world war officially ended while he was in grade school when the last oil field went up in smoke, disgorging black soot into an already tainted atmosphere. But the announcement was more like a psychological pause for breath. Because of the massive loss of life, news editors complied with government orders. Any new battles were downplayed and buried on the back page, listed as "Local Unrest." His father, a career soldier, was reported "missing" just five years ago while on a supposed fact-finding mission.

He set the cup down and dropped into his chair, indicating with one wave of his hand that Wilson should sit and that further discussion of his leg was off limits. "Don't waste my valuable time, Dr. Wilson. Why are you here?"

Wilson looked taken aback at being addressed by his name or the lack of small talk, but instantly regained his composure. "I'm here because of one of your patients."

"Don't have patients. Not a medical doctor, although I have PhDs in math, engineering, physics—"

"My research shows you have a degree in medicine." He reached into his bag.

"Don't bother with proof." House raised his hands in mock dismay. "Guilty as charged. Once a practitioner of the medical arts, I no longer belong to that esteemed community. I'm a defrocked doc." He leaned back in his chair. "Once again, let's start at the top. You're here because… ?"

"Because of Victoria Furia."

House did his best to appear stumped.

Wilson simply stared back with an I-know-you-know look.

He tapped his index finger against his mouth. "Victoria? Vicki? Vic? Nooo, doesn't ring a bell. You mean… wait, it's on the tip of my tongue…." He snapped his fingers and smiled like a hungry collie about to gobble a bowl of kibble. "I got it! GH/BSL4P8627. She's a beaut, right? Modeled her after my aunt. I call it Twenty-seven for short."

Wilson swatted the air with his left hand as if he were shooing away a pesky mosquito. "Fine. Twenty-seven might be the serial number for your robot, but she's a real patient to me. One that's in excruciating pain and grieving."

House rolled his eyes and said slowly, "Not a robot. An Automaton. _It_ cannot feel pain, _It_ doesn't have emotions. It _mimics_ symptoms and emotions for the sole purpose of training medical staff."

Wilson rubbed his forehead and nodded, seemingly calmer. "I know, I know. I convinced my boss, Doctor Foreman, to subscribe to your program, but I never expected... " He lapsed into silence.

Add soft, gooey center to Wilson's persona. House wasn't sure how to proceed. Cuddy was better at handling clients. Hell, even Blue the janitor was. He rifled through the file until he found something to change the subject. He said softly, "Well done discovering her name. You're running 24 hours ahead of schedule. Your diagnosis?"

"Rabies." Wilson closed his eyes briefly and barked a short, bitter laugh. "How could you recreate such a living hell?"

"Shit happens. That's the whole point. You can study worst case scenarios safely."

"Safely?" Wilson scowled. "Victoria bit Foreman earlier today. The first vaccination was administered, but given the circumstances I wanted your personal assurance that the standard course of treatment was enough."

"It depends. And stop calling _it_ , Victoria"

"It depends?" Wilson's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Whether you're telling me the whole truth or not." House pointed to Wilson's left hand, the one he apparently needed to orchestrate everything he said. It was encircled in a thick bandage. "Collateral damage?"

The scowl turned sheepish. "Foreman bit me."

"And yet you're covering for him. Nice boss you got there." House fingered the sheets in the file. "You signed the contract." He gazed off into space as he spun out what must have happened. "Which means, you two disagreed...you went over his head to the board and got an okay for the program. Furious, and having heard the rumors about my 'Master Race' carrying mutating diseases, he had no compunction biting you to force you to come here."

"Correct, Sherlock. Don't bother thanking me." Wilson answered acidly.

A bleeding heart one moment, waspish the next. House wished Wilson was one of his army of automata so he could take him apart and find out what made him tick. But humans were complicated and messy and required establishing relationships to learn more about them. House liked complicated, but was wary of the other two. He pushed the intercom button. "Cuddy, come up here. Our visitor is about to leave."

"Whoa! I'm not moving until I get answers."

"You want to know if Foreman is at risk for rabies, and if there's any truth to the gossip that there's an outside chance you could contract it."

"I told Foreman you're a doctor and took an oath to do no harm, but he insisted I speak to you in person. "

"Why? Among your many talents you're also a human lie detector? Be not afraid, Wilson. It's talk, plain and simple. My competitors find it cheaper to spread vicious rumors than invest money in R&D."

Wilson nodded as if he never had a doubt. "Then I'll discontinue the protocol."

House shrugged. "That depends."

"Again with depends?"

Cuddy had quietly entered and stood alongside Wilson's chair. It was time for House to lay his cards on the table. "As a precaution Twenty-seven's strain of rabies was engineered to lose its effectiveness when she dies." House looked at his watch. "Which from my calculation should be within 48 hours. You can tell him and forego the vaccine, or stay mum and stick to the regimen."

Wilson touched the snowy gauze wrapped around his hand, and nodded knowingly. " _Depending_ whether or not I want revenge on Foreman." He stood up.

House got to his feet. "If that's not enough, stop by my pharmacy. They'll whip up a placebo cocktail that can be administered as a supplemental injection." He patted his stomach. "It will sting like the devil, but tell Foreman it's a safeguard that I recently developed."

"I will," Wilson said, a smile slowly spreading across his face, then vanished abruptly. "Wait, you don't have a license. How can you prescribe?"

"We have a free clinic staffed with nurse practitioners who write scrips. The pharmacy serves _those_ patients," Cuddy said, looking pointedly at House.

With his leg beginning to set off sparks, her timing could not have been better. House dug into his pocket, and elaborately rattled his pills before popping a couple into his mouth. "Clinic patients are the foundation of our work."

"We're always on the lookout for unusual cases," Cuddy explained, ignoring his behavior. "And the publicity is priceless."

"Which you tell me every day," House said.

"Which you need to hear every day," Cuddy shot back.

House demonstrated his "bored" face. "Game, set, match. Can't wait for tomorrow." Over her head he caught Wilson sliding the file back into the messenger bag and slinging it onto his shoulder. An unnamable feeling fluttered inside him. He tried squelching it by thinking _messy, time-consuming, soul sucking_. The battle continued to rage inside him even as he said, "Since you stuck your neck out for me, bring back Twenty-seven when she reaches room temperature. I'll replace her with my latest model at a reduced fee. It's primed to spew blood, piss, and projectile vomit when a doctor asks, 'What seems to be the problem?' Wear scrubs, and be sure Foreman is in the room when you do."

"Reduced fee?" Cuddy said, her voice scathing.

"I'll knock off forty percent."

"He'll do it for free," Cuddy reassured Wilson, and then added under her breath, "You need a friend, House."

House was at a loss. Even Cuddy seemed to be aware of some chemistry between them, but he feared moving forward.

Hands in his pockets and looking relaxed, Wilson didn't seem in a hurry to leave. "Double vaccinations, gushing blood and guts. It's me who owes you. How about I treat you to dinner?"

It was now or never. He raised his pant leg to show what hid beneath. "Defrocked Doc, remember?" He watched Wilson's expression. Seeing the reality of a heavy ankle bracelet with a flashing red light might stop any budding friendship right in its tracks.

Other than an easygoing, slouchy shrug, there was no reaction. Without realizing it, House had forgotten to exhale until Wilson answered, "There's always take-out."

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	3. Chapter 3

"We may brave human laws, but we cannot resist natural ones." ―Jules Verne

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When House was at home and the weather obliging, he spent his evenings on the terrace. The penthouse, built on the fifth floor of the lab, had an exceptional view of the sunset.

The sky glowed flamingo pink as the sun dipped below the horizon. In its place, curtains of purple and green light reached toward the cosmos, spinning as gracefully as a couple waltzing around a ballroom floor. The sight, a parting gift from the Juggernaut, was beautiful but as unnatural as a blue rose. When the dance came full circle, the colors melted away to black satin.

After the light show finished, House stretched out on the lounge and anticipated what the idiot apartment dwellers across the street might be doing tonight. Sex? An argument over infidelity? More sex? Cheating? A threat with a kitchen knife? Then, make-up sex?

He sucked on the stub of his cigar before crushing it out. Entertainment had been sparse this summer. Two families were on vacation, one family moved out, and the newlyweds on the first floor were working two jobs. He supposed they were squirreling away money to buy a home of their own. That left the old couple upstairs and the odd couple directly below. Fortunately, the husband was the jealous type, and the two men sniped at each other continuously until they shut off the lights. Then the real fun began. His night goggles were charged and stowed under his chair.

So far, there was nothing to pique his interest. A Friday night, no one had returned home. About to lift the receiver from its cradle and call Wilson, he replaced it when the glass-paned door behind him rattled. There was the thud of something bulky hitting the ground and a very Wilson-like, drawn out sigh. His spirits soared. Melodrama was still on the playbill. "Wife kicked you out again?"

"She did," Wilson said, dropping a prescription bottle next to House's glass, then arranging himself comfortably on the lounge across from him.

House hefted the container. A fully packed bottle. Wilson hadn't followed through on his latest threat to cut the quantity.

A manila envelope plopped onto the small table between them. He leaned over and thumbed the flap. Still sealed. He flipped it over to see who it was from. A very prominent and very expensive law firm. "I warned you not to remarry Sam."

"You did," Wilson said softly.

House steeled himself for more. One thing he had learned during the breakup with Julie was that Wilson liked to process out loud, and to go on about it... forever. "Any time now," he mumbled to himself.

Wilson's sole vocalization was a huff. He kicked off his shoes and sat like a lump.

House asked, "How about a beer?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Not you. Me. And hurry. I'm parched after all our jabbering."

Wilson gave him The Eye, then padded inside. When he returned, he was already chugging at a frosty bottle streaked with rivulets of condensation. Droplets stained his shirtfront. The remaining bottles in the six-pack clanked invitingly as they landed on the table.

House suppressed a grunt as he repositioned his leg, and snagged a beer. He then put his hand out.

Wilson stood mystified.

"Where's my cigar?"

"For crying out lou-" The rest was lost as Wilson thumped back into the living room.

"You'll thank me later," House said to Wilson's receding back, satisfied that he'd loosened Wilson's tongue. Then, as an afterthought, he said, "And work your mojo in the kitchen. I'm hungry." Once a hole formed in the dam, there was no holding back the flood. He was in for a long night and needed sustenance.

As expected, the conversation stretched into the wee hours. Wilson followed the usual pattern, moaning over Sam as he had with Julie. He worked his way from the shoulda's and coulda's, onto angry accusations, and then took a long soak in a pity bath.

Miraculously, House toppled into bed before sunrise. Perhaps escalating from beer to brandy had helped; or Wilson couldn't stand the drone of his own voice anymore.

The conversation had promisingly petered out once. Wilson had nodded off. Before House could savor the silence two alley cats chose that moment to sing arias in the key of screech. Wilson's head bobbed back up. "I should've apologized…"

House bit back a groan. Desperate to cut Wilson off, inspiration came to him in the form of his ankle bracelet winking tirelessly in the dark. "Stop moping and celebrate. Unlike me, you're a free man. No shackles, blonde or otherwise, bind you. Do you have any idea why I'm under house arrest?"

Wilson gazed up from his glass.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized he shouldn't have ventured down this path. Like an incensed cobra rearing its mantled head, jealousy rose within him. It was too late to turn back. Wilson was looking at him intently. House had to proceed with caution. "You already know, don't you? Cuddy filled you in when you asked her out. You took her to museums and _plays_."

Wilson casually shrugged off the question. "When it comes to you, she's tight-lipped." He puckered his lips into a drunken kiss and traced a circle around it with his index finger. "With me too."

House paused. Wilson's little motion had caused the tiniest erotic reaction to bubble inside him. Exactly who had awakened the green-eyed monster? Cuddy or his best friend? "You haven't done her?"

Wilson dipped his head in shame and whispered. "Yes, yes I did."

"Seriously?"

"No, House. We're only friends."

"And she didn't say anything? Not a hint?" House waited for additional confirmation, but apparently Wilson had run out of words and was down to a cross-eyed, glassy stare. House decided to trust that look and divulge the down-and-dirty. "I dated Cuddy's twin."

"T-twin? As in, identical?"

"Yep. Right down to the same magnificent breasts."

"What happened?"

"Our relationship hit a snag in the Riverbed of Incompatibility."

"Last time I checked incompatibility wasn't a crime."

"It is when the snag is my steamcar and the riverbed is Cuddy's dining room."

A trace of undisguised disgust crossed Wilson' s face. Trust him to mirror what House felt in his soul. "I spent a year in prison for leaving the scene of a crime. When I finished my sentence, Cuddy sued me for the price of her house, loss of wages, and twenty other things only attorneys are capable of concocting to justify their fees. It was either pay up or stay under house arrest. " He pointed to his ankle.

"Until…?"

"There's no statute of limitation for doing time outside of prison."

"That's-s-so... unfair!"

House brushed Wilson's spittle from his cheek. "Leah Cuddy would agree with you. That's why she works for me."

Wilson seemed to rouse himself from his stupor, propping himself up on one elbow. "Then you and Leah…?"

"No. She likes to flirt, that's all. Her main reason for working here is as an act of defiance against her family."

Wilson nodded his satisfaction with the answer and dropped back onto the chair. Suddenly his arm shot up, pointing to a meteor shower. His mouth opened in slack-jawed awe.

House refilled their glasses and silently toasted his luck. Wilson had moved from corporeal to celestial bodies with barely a raise of an eyebrow.


	4. Chapter 4

"Before all masters, necessity is the one most listened to, and who teaches the best." ―Jules Verne

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House shoved french toast into his mouth as quickly as Wilson slid slices onto the serving plate. Sprinkled with powdered sugar and stuffed with warm cream cheese, they were better than his favorite hooker's two-for-one special. He should have been in a state of bliss except Wilson had gone disturbingly quiet

House dropped the silverware on the plate so they made a sharp clank. Wilson never turned around. He drummed the knife repeatedly against the rim. Still nothing.

Before opening his mouth, he considered the outcome of a well-placed verbal volley. Wilson might cloak himself in shock and hurt, and leave. After hunkering down on his couch for nearly six months … not awful. Except, he eyed the food. No restaurant with delivery service came close to what Wilson prepared.

On the other hand, if he played nice and made the right kind of noises, Wilson would spill his guts. Definitely not how House wanted to spend the rest of his day, and night, and following day.

There was also that piece of folded parchment lying at the bottom of his bedside drawer. The Detector had predicted another divorce. That had come to pass. Next, depression, which clearly Wilson had been struggling with since he showed up at his door suitcase in hand. Until now, House had tiptoed around Wilson's monthly periods. This mood swing seemed different. Perhaps it was time to feed peanuts to the elephant in the room.

He cleared his throat. "You've been pissed all weekend. What's eating you? Have your groupies stopped coming to class?"

Wilson slowly turned from the stove with a saucepan in one hand and a skillet in the other, and a scowl stretched across his face.

Okaaay. Flippancy might not be the best approach, but House had used his sympathetic, best friend voice. That should have counted for something. "Never mind, we can talk later." He hastily doused maple syrup over the remaining slices and moved to the couch.

Wilson dogged his heels and sank into the cushion alongside him. "My lectures are growing stale. How many ways are there to liven up Pharmacology?"

"Hand out free samples."

"Not helping, House," Wilson sighed. He ran his hand along the back of his neck, and spoke haltingly. "That's not the real problem. It's Vogler. He's exerting pressure on the board to drop your program."

Winged dollar bills flying out the lab's windows flitted through his mind. "Vogler is pushing his designer meds over my automata. No surprise. My program drains cash and doesn't add a cent to the bottom line."

"He said blood panels and scans pinpointing 90% of the cases were good enough." Wilson gesticulated wildly with his hand. "That's not what medicine is about. Training med students with your automata has closed the margin of error another 5%. Vogler said it was trivial. Foreman agreed." There was a hiccupped chuckle. "I'm not going to repeat what Vogler said about my contributions."

"You lived with me for six months. How could you let Vogler get under your skin?"

Wilson smiled humorlessly. "No. You don't understand. He voted me off the board. I was forced to turn in my resignation." His fingers plundered his well-groomed hair. "I've got no family, no home, and because I believed in what you're doing, no job. I'm finished there."

House was at a loss. He wrapped his hands around his cane and said nothing. Wilson was a free agent when it came to defending him. Nevertheless, House felt responsible.

As for the future, it looked bleak. In search of job, Wilson might move away, possibly out of state. And if the detector was right, he'd die before fifty because House wouldn't be around to catch any warning signs. "Come work for me," he said quietly.

"What? I don't know the first thing about automata."

True. Anything larger than a can opener and Wilson was out of his element. And, as close as they were, House didn't want him privy to all his lab's secrets. So, what could he offer? "You'll run the clinic."

Wilson frowned. "I haven't worked with patients since that conference…"

"But you still have your license. A moment ago you were moaning about classes, and you hate sitting at a desk all day. Trust me, you were on the road to burnout."

"What are you saying? I should be happy Vogler forced me out?"

"Yes. With Vogler in total control of his fiefdom, who's to say PPTH's rating won't nosedive?" He levered himself up from the couch. "Let's find out. I want to show you something."

Living where you worked had its upside. Before Wilson could put up any resistance, House had whisked him down to his office and emancipated the Douglas Detector from its case. " _Voila! Moi boule magique de huit!_ "

"Magic Eight Ball?" Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not in the mood for one of your games, House."

"Not a game. A window into the past and the future. Have you heard of the Douglas Detector?"

"Yes. Used in the same sentence with unicorn and Bigfoot." Wilson poked a key with his finger, which House immediately slapped away. Wilson seemed undaunted. "As I recall it was also referred to as the Snitch."

"By people who can't handle the truth." House wired the device to the console and fed Vogler's information into it. "Watch and learn."

As the machine started to print, Wilson leaned over his shoulder. "I don't see anything relevant to―"

House held up a finger. "Wait for it…"

There was the familiar kerchunk and the page filled with red ink.

"Here comes the good stuff," House said with false cheer, at least he hoped so. A bully like Vogler couldn't possibly have lived a charmed life, dying peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of 120, give or take a decade.

"Aha! All of Vogler's marriages flounder." House glanced over his shoulder. "A seven time loser. Makes you look like an amateur." By the way Wilson was biting his lower lip, he wasn't impressed. House prayed for more and much, much worse.

And when it came his jaw dropped open.

A long series of legalese and headlines told the story. Stripping his assets to the bone, Vogler flooded the courts with lawsuits and class actions against every humanoid automata maker. House's corporation, Baker Street Labs, was listed first on every suit. Furia's name popped up. Many other "patients" still on the drawing board were named as well. Bill Koppelman stabbed a doctor. A "Jason" Doe held patients and medical staff hostage and shot them.

House shook his head disbelievingly. Fake rabies was one thing, but no one was supposed to suffer permanent harm. He stared at his hands in horror as if they dripped blood.

"You didn't know?" Wilson said gently.

"No. The detector won't run if the owner or operator feeds personal information into it. The only exception is when that person affects the subject's life in a significant way."

"If you want me to beg for my old job back and spy for you, I will," Wilson said.

"Forget it. Vogler's cunning enough to know what you're up to. He'll have you in the morgue, mopping floors."

Wilson's term for the detector, Snitch, was apt. All it did was drop problems in his lap. Ones that were overwhelming and seemingly unstoppable.

House spun his chair around and watched a thick cortege of clouds march across the sky. Wilson rested his hand on his shoulder and squeezed it consolingly. The cupped palm felt soothing. "There must be a way to stop this," House thought aloud.

"Right. Fix a situation that hasn't arisen yet," Wilson scoffed. "Isn't that what got you in trouble in the first place? Your robot patients?"

Suddenly, the forest compressed into one tree. Ignoring the use of the 'R' word, House swung his chair around, not realizing his hand was covering Wilson's until he let go. "I'll change the way I do business. Downsizing is the key. But I'll need you more than ever."

"In the clinic? How can working there save your business?"

"Not just the clinic. I'm voting you onto my Board. You'll speak for the corporation. When the media comes knocking, you'll do the talking. If I do it, I'll only muck it up, but cameras love you. You're the doctor _everyone_ loves. That is, except for the small minority of women you married. Don't propose to any patients or journalists, and we should be good."

Wilson stood quietly, ruminating.

While Wilson might not be the coveted X factor in House's equation, he was definitely the reliable constant, Y. Desperate to get him on board, House was willing to play the brother card gleaned from the Snitch. "I'll sweeten the pot by installing a cafeteria in the space across the lobby from the clinic. You can offer food vouchers to patients who can't afford a square meal let alone health care. What do you say? In?"

Wilson's face brightened considerably. "All in."

House pointed a finger at his new Director of Communications. "Your first duty is to purge 'robot' from your vocabulary."


	5. Chapter 5

_"I say, you do have a heart!"_

 _"Sometimes," he replied, "when I have the time."_ ―Jules Verne

.

.

"What symptom would indicate kidney failure?" House waited expectantly, hand poised over the chalkboard.

"Swollen feet," Taub said.

"Yes, but boring. Try again." He tapped the side of his nose. "The nose knows."

"Uh… Ammonia breath." Taub beamed.

"Better! Always lead with your strengths." House noted gleefully that Taub's newly minted smile had tarnished around the edges. "Anyone else?" He deliberately swung his attention toward his other new recruit.

"Itching feet," Amber said with a hint of a smirk.

The upturned corners of Taub's mouth flatlined.

"Bingo! You win the immunity card." Not only was the symptom solid but the sibling rivalry invigorating. This was exactly what he wanted from his dream team.

"And you." House looked at Wilson, who had slipped into the conference room and taken a seat across from Cutthroat Bitch. Was it his imagination, or had he spied furtive glances between them? "Did you run out of crotches to examine?"

Wilson wrinkled his brow in mock dismay and looked at his wristwatch. "That line never gets old… for you. It's lunchtime."

"Well then..." House passed the chalk to Chase who looked like he was burning the candle at both ends since Cameron left. "Carry on without me."

xxx

"Did you see the new neighbors?" Wilson said, sliding into their corner booth and sweeping the DOCTORS ONLY sign to the side. The table took full advantage of the outside view as well as the dining room.

House shoved a handful of Wilson's fries into his mouth, speaking around them. "No. Spill."

Wilson's grimace was priceless. "Must you? We're in _your_ cafeteria."

House swallowed, snagged another, and pointed it at Wilson. "What is the meaning of life?" He watched with guarded amusement as Wilson's mouth worked, but nothing came out. "What? We're not discussing imponderables?"

"Forget I asked." Wilson leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, "Coeds."

"Any groupies from your old classes?"

"Be serious."

"I was. How many?"

"Four."

"Score!" House stuck out an open hand. "Pay up." Two twenties fluttered into it. "So, what do they look like? Girls Gone Wild or Charlotte Vale's ugly sisters?"

"Um…" The passive-aggressive bastard chomped into his burger and chewed thoroughly, not answering until he swallowed. "Promising."

House wanted to groan or beg or both. "Talk dirty to me." Although in a public place, albeit his, Wilson never would.

"Hiiiigh cheeekbones, if you know what I mean," Wilson's palm lightly skimmed a circle over his chest.

House did, and found the gesture somewhat arousing. "Go on."

"Four significant sets."

"Significant, as in ro _bust_?"

Wilson ducked his head as a busboy walked by. "I _firmly_ concur with you, doctor."

"And…?" House encouraged, "Care to share more redacted images?"

Wilson shook his head while munching on a fry. "You'll see for yourself when you get home."

"We need a bigger 'scope." House wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Buy one after work."

Wilson looked up from his food. "About work, what was going on in the conference room? That wasn't a standard differential."

"Nope. The team also defines diseases for my automata by suggesting rare symptoms. You walked in as we were building one literally from the ground up."

"You're still designing patients?" Wilson's voice ratcheted up a notch. "Have you forgotten the Snitch's prediction about Vogler suing you? My contacts at the hospital say attorneys are constantly parading through his office. He's interviewing law firms."

"It takes time to retool. I'm strapped for cash."

"Money. That's your justification for unleashing monsters on medical centers?"

House slowly wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Calm down, Igor. Let me explain. What you saw was the beginning of my 2.0 series. I swear, if there was an army of them, collectively they couldn't kill a fly.

"What you witnessed upstairs was locked-in syndrome. Next up is vegetative-state man. Not a difficult diagnosis, but he poses an interesting moral dilemma. Universities with pre-med and philosophy departments will be forming lines out to the street to order one. Then, here's one you'll appreciate, a little girl dying of cancer... "

Wilson raised a hand. "Enough. I get the picture. So, this temporary measure… how long will it take to extricate yourself from the automata industry?"

House cut his steak and watched the juices pool under the meat. Wilson, who worked tirelessly at the clinic. Wilson, who fretted about Vogler more than he did, deserved an answer.

"Give me three months."

xxx

 _Six months later_

House's eyelids were at half-mast when the elevator dinged. Like a prizefighter hearing a boxing bell, he moved into action. He scratched the purring kitten under its ear, located the switch, and shut it off. The body stiffened into a statue as he placed it in a box under his desk.

"I'm moving out," Wilson said, walking through the open door.

"Moving in with Amber." A statement, not a question. "Don't look surprised. You've been sneaking out of the apartment every night for a month. Has she accepted your proposal to be the fifth Mrs. Wilson?"

Wilson looked down at the floor, hands in his pant's pockets. "No. I mean, I haven't asked. We're taking it slow."

"So, next month, then. Engaged by Thanksgiving, married Christmas Eve, in labor Labor Day." House grinned to cover up any trace of bitterness that might show. Inwardly, his heart sank as he watched Wilson seriously doing the math.

"Wait. If we married in December…"

"You couldn't possibly have sex to celebrate your engagement, or moving in together, or having a meaningful conversation about half-caf lattes at the corner coffee house?"

"Okay, I get it." Wilson's rubbed the back of his neck. "You don't like surprises. I should have told you sooner."

Actually, there was nothing surprising about the match, but House thought Wilson deserved to hear the disclaimer. "You do know the team dislikes her? She schemes, deceives, and openly gloats. And like the demon she is, feasts on the turmoil."

"I know, I know, but she's different around me."

"Yeah, you say that now. Wait until she eats your first born child."

He knew he was acting like a jealous child. If he didn't put his feelings aside he'd lose Wilson entirely. House pushed up from his desk, and put out his hand. "Congratulations."

"Th-thanks, House."

Limping into the conference room, he waved to Wilson to follow. At the table he hooked his cane to the back of a chair and snapped on surgical gloves before reaching for a fancy metal pill box, the type old ladies carry in their handbags. With infinite care, he plucked a tiny, lumpy thing from the container, held it up to the light, and blew on it. Legs shot out and wriggled. "Meet phase three, Arthropoda Mechanica, a breakthrough in microrobotics. Arthur's gonna topple Vogler's empire. Now, open your shirt."

Almost to the point of hyperventilation, Wilson brushed at his arm as if Artie were scrambling up it. "I don't care what cute name you gave it. Keep it away. I won't be your guinea pig."

House stepped back, giving Wilson some space, and received a glare for his kindness.

"Is this your way of getting back at me because I'm moving in with Amber? Am I gonna wake up bald tomorrow?"

"You're overreacting, girlfriend. Would you like this bitsy ugly better if it had rainbows or baby chicks painted on its back? Nobody else whined when I inoculated them."

"You did Amber?" Wilson looked stunned.

"Yes, but strictly in the medical sense."

"Why didn't she tell me?"

"You'll have to ask her." House shifted to a more comfortable position. "Can we get on with it? Cripple here."

Wilson eyed the thing warily. "How does it work?"

House felt a trickle of nervous perspiration run down the back of his neck. While words hardly ever failed him, he lacked the silvery tongue of a salesman. "This mini robot is like a tick, but in reverse. It's programmed to find your jugular and deliver its payload, microrobots, into the bloodstream. The mics are so small that they can penetrate every kind of human tissue, searching out markers for the top ten deadly diseases. Imagine, discovering cancer _before_ stage one."

"Impressive," Wilson said softly. He thumbed the fabric of his collar for a few seconds, clearly undecided. "How does it report results? Will it cause your trademark projectile vomiting?"

"The team suggested that, but I exercised my veto power. Mimics too many diseases. Went with unusual mole."

"How unusual?"

"Two inch bluish discoloration near the affected area."

Wilson's mouth was slightly ajar before he found his voice. "Testicular cancer just got more interesting."

"Unbutton the shirt."

Wilson did what he was told, and flapped his hand as if to say, _Get on with it_.

House lavishly swabbed Wilson's neck with antiseptic and placed the "bug" near the vein. Without hesitation the robot inched its way over and stopped. The only signs that it had pierced the skin was a tiny droplet of blood trickling from the wound and a slight wince from Wilson. Within sixty seconds the cargo was circulating through the blood system. The "bug", reduced to an empty husk, floated nearly weightless onto the carpet.

"That's it. Now for your lollipop." House went back to his office. Far enough away not to be heard, he said under his breath. "You're safe."

He returned with a white bundle of fluff, and turned it on before thrusting it at Wilson. It mewed sweetly as it came to life. "Surprise! Your first housewarming gift. Meet Sarah."

Wilson looked enchanted but hesitant. "I don't know. What will Amber say?"

"Come, pussy?" The unmistakable innuendo in House's lilt made Wilson blush. "Sarah might be a copycat, but who could resist her? I guarantee she'll melt girlfriend's ice cube of a heart."

Wilson left the conference room with the kitten in his arms and a sloppy grin on his face. House had a hunch if it were up to Wilson the automaton would be on 24/7 but not if Amber had her say. He had firsthand knowledge that she was not a pet person. Wait until she discovered Sarah did everything real cats do. Piss, crap, spit up hairballs, and scratch furniture.

House smiled to himself. If the happy couple didn't break up by next year, their anniversary gift was taken care of. Sarah was programmed to develop diabetes in twelve months.


	6. Chapter 6

"Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one." ―Jules Verne

.

.

House hated weekends. The halls were eerily quiet when the lab and clinic closed. He stepped off the elevator and roamed around the empty lobby, hoping for a glimpse of Cuddy. She never stopped for weekends if there was a deadline hanging over her head. And there always was. This afternoon, however, her office door was locked.

With a smile as bright as a Broadway marquee, Wilson had announced he was taking Amber to Manhattan. The trip, Wilson-style, was planned down to the minute. They were seeing plays, visiting museums, dining in five star restaurants. Sunday night was reserved for the Empire State Building. Poor sap. House suspected an imminent engagement.

But maybe not. He'd been wrong before. Christmas had come and gone. In April Wilson drove Amber to upstate New York for Passover dinner with his parents. He had bet Chase that Amber would return wearing a ring, but no. Wilson hadn't pulled the trigger.

House picked through a stack of newspapers piled on the receptionist's desk and returned to his office. Baker Street Laboratories' startling medical breakthrough with arthropoda mechanica no longer made headlines, but a day rarely passed without some mention of his company in the medical section.

Then there was the editorial page. Vogler must have bought off every quack in the country to mail in letters. The smear campaign insinuated that his "tick" spread disease.

He eyed the tower of blue legal folders in his inbox. Vogler was hitting him with a new and completely false suit every day. The attorney fees alone could crush his company. Luckily for him, Wilson had contacted an old flame from his college days, a named partner in a law firm, Stacy Warner. She believed in what he was doing and only charged for services rendered by her paralegal.

Reluctant to set up a meeting, he was surprised how well they had clicked when they met. House considered calling her. If the chemistry was still there, he'd ask her over. However, his leg was nagging him like a jealous girlfriend, bitching non-stop. He responded by massaging his thigh. Maybe he'd try Stacy's number later.

What he needed was hot coffee, but the trek to the conference room was as impossible as driving a locomotive to the moon. He swallowed a couple of pills and erected a 3D chess set while they kicked in.

When impossible shifted to doable-but-unpleasant, he hitched over to the urn, careful not to spill any coffee on the way back. As he was about to sit down, he spotted an angry red light glowing on the fail-safe panel of the console. He toggled the switch, but it adamantly refused to shut off. And then another went on, and another, until a complete row beamed back defiantly in an arrogant display of solidarity.

Cuddy's voice blared over the intercom, "House, something's gone terribly wrong." As soon as she uttered the statement a claxon wailed through the empty corridors.

At first, phone calls and news bulletins added to the chaos instead of dispelling it.

The oily elocution of newscasters' voices filled the airwaves with details about a subway trolley derailment in midtown Manhattan. The lights on the console had gone berserk at the very same moment as the accident. House hunched next to the speaker, hanging on every word as his imagination went wild; he felt numb and lost. But Cuddy understood how to cut through red tape. She stayed by his side, called reporters, police stations, hospitals, and morgues.

When she placed her hand tenderly over his and said, "Wilson is alive," he awoke as if out of a trance.

"What's his condition?"

"Not bad. Contusions. Lacerations that required stitches. A concussion. The attending insisted on 24 hour observation."

The tightness in his chest lessened. "And Amber?"

Head bowed, she returned to reading her notes.

"I said, what about―"

"I heard you, House. There's no sign of her."

"Which means," he peered at the light that had started it all. It had gone dark shortly after pandemonium had broken loose in the lab, "she didn't survive."

xxx

He was reviewing Chase's recommendations for Arthur's next of kin, "Auntie" Adipose, when he heard the staccato click of Cuddy's heels. The new bug was a potential goldmine. While some people were in denial about their mortality and not interested in Artie, everyone thought their ass was too big. "Auntie's" microrobots stripped fat from the body and broke down fatty foods as soon as they were consumed. Even better, Vogler had nothing like it on the market. There was no reason for injunctions or lawsuits. It was a win-win. A triple win if he invested every dime into hog futures.

And then his fantasy of hobnobbing with King Midas shattered as a familiar leather messenger bag dropped onto his desk.

Wilson stood across from him looking pale, acting grim yet vulnerable, wearing his grief like an overcoat. By his side was Cuddy, her large, luminous eyes begging House to behave.

"What brought you here today?" A mix of guilt and bitterness swept over him. Guilt because he was instrumental in bringing the couple together. Bitter because Wilson's reason for resigning was that the lab was a daily reminder of Amber's loss. The friendship that had begun in his office long before she had arrived meant nothing. "If you're missing a tchotchke from one of your beloved welfare kids, check with Blue. He packed your belongings."

"Not the cause for my visit, but if you must know, that's my tennis ball." Wilson pointed to the oversized, fuzzy orb on the corner of House's desk, then dropped his arm as if it were made of lead. "Never mind," he said tiredly, glancing at Cuddy.

She brusquely pushed an unruly lock of hair behind her ear. "You two sort things out on your own. I'm going to my office where I'm needed." She clicked her way back to the elevator.

"If you're here about your old job…"

Wilson raised his hands. "No. I came because the police officially closed the case on Amber, ruling her death an accident without finding her remains. During the cleanup the Transit Authority gave me a box of odds and ends from the site tagged 'incidentals'." He reached into the case. "Since you like puzzles, I brought a few pieces with me."

A diamond engagement ring skittered across the surface of his desk, sparkling like a prism as it caught the light. And then a heap of bolts, rods, pins, and gears clattered down.

Wilson pointed. "The investigating team couldn't understand why there was rubble beneath the wreckage, parts not belonging to the trolley car or the track-cleaning robot that had gone rogue." The back of his hand slid over his mouth. "And I didn't know…" Wilson's laugh rang off the hook. "There was so much I didn't know."

House watched fascinated as Wilson placed a finger gently in the debris and idly cut a path through it. "Here was this box of junk taking up space in my kitchen, collecting dust. One day I decided to take a closer look. And, you know what I found?" Wilson's finger circled the pool of metal until he chose a large, chunky gear and pushed it toward House. "Every one was stamped with the same serial number, GH/BSL3M0013."

"Do you know what I did with that information?" Wilson slowly and carefully pulled a sheet of yellowed paper from his bag and held it out.

House found it hard to swallow. He reached for it. Not paper, parchment. One line in wobbly, uneven ink stood out:

.

 _ **Amber Volakis A.K.A. GH/BSL3M0013. Patent holder: Gregory House, Baker Street Laboratories**_

 _ **.**_

"You broke into my office," House said, stunned.

"Easier." Wilson fished into his pocket and dangled a key ring. "You never asked for your keys back." He shook his head. "Why didn't you tell me?"

When House saw the key he automatically patted his pant's pocket and silently cursed. A rookie mall cop would never have made such an idiotic mistake. He'd let denial get the better of him, expecting Wilson to return.

"You were depressed about Sam and your job. Amber was a temporary distraction. Threatening to fire her every week was supposed to get your attention, not arouse your inner knight. If that freak accident in the tunnel hadn't happened you'd still be head over heels in love. That is, until you found a needier screw-up without x-ray vision."

"Always ready to deflect," Wilson answered. He picked up the diamond and swept the metal back into the bag. "By the way," he said casually, "I know about Cuddy, the _real_ Cuddy. She doesn't live very far away."

"You're a regular Nancy Drew, aren't you?" House said, attempting to mask his discomfort.

Wilson paced in front of the desk as he talked. "We chatted over a long, illuminating lunch. She's not estranged from Leah. Actually, she's never heard of her. Her sister's name is Julia. And, she said you paid off the repairs on her home years ago, three times over. Her attorney sent the stop order but you never turned it into the court. She asked me to pass on a message. Stop sending money."

House couldn't bear looking at Wilson anymore. He maneuvered the pile of paper clips on his desk to form a spiral pattern. "Tell her the payments are in an irrevocable trust. She can do whatever she likes. Save them for Rachel's college tuition or bury them in a hole. Same difference."

Another paper landed on his desk. A list of names. There was Roger Chase, Charles Taub, and Blue. After the janitor the names changed to plain titles: Lunch Lady, Busboy. Each had a unique serial number. House turned it over so he wouldn't have to look at it.

Wilson sighed. "Guilt does funny things to people. Like you for instance. Throwing away a medical career for a life in your own personal prison, stocked with ghosts from your past." He looked around the office as if seeing it for the first time. "Is there anyone here who doesn't dream of electric sheep, House?"

Wilson's pity was worse than his anger. House stood up and lifted the phone receiver to his ear. "Unless you want to find out who my guards were modeled after, get out of here."

For a long moment Wilson stood there, stricken. His face changed to icy granite as he walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

"The chance which now seems lost may present itself at the last moment." ―Jules Verne

.

.

He breathed deeply before walking outside. Still uneasy leaving his custom-made fortress, he was getting better. The candy apple red motorbike waiting in his reserved parking spot lessened his anxiety. Its wide, copper pipes fanned out proudly like a peacock's tail. Etched with a pattern as fine as dragonfly wings, the metal glittered in the sunlight.

His gear was carefully stowed in the bike's carrier and his cane snapped into special clips. After adjusting his goggles and buckling his helmet he eased his bad leg over the water tank. Unless he wanted to subsist on peanut butter and anchovies over the weekend, a stop at a market was required. Pushing the speed limit and cutting through the business district's narrow back alleys should get him home before the conclusion of _Prescription Passion's_ Friday cliffhanger.

xxx

Approaching his apartment he spotted a small, square case on the doormat. It couldn't be, but it was. The Snitch had found him. It had dogged him for months, first showing up atop his favorite terrace lounge chair looking spiffy. No longer worn and battered the leather was smooth and sleek, polished to a spit-shine. The rusty nickel plated handle and corner fittings were replaced with buttery gold.

No matter how hard he tried, the thing followed him like a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. House shipped it to Chicago with no return address. Two weeks later it was back, sporting an oval decal from the Windy City. He packed it off to San Francisco. Within seven days it was on his desk with a sticker of the Golden Gate. The sweeping bridge cables resembled a triumphant smile. This last time his plan was foolproof. Before moving, he paid off the captain of a tramp steamer to drop it in the middle of the ocean, any ocean. He thought he had rid himself of the nuisance for good, but here it was, bearing a tax stamp in elegant Japanese calligraphy and gilded leather that matched the fittings.

All gussied up, the globetrotting Snitch was as alluring as Snow White's apple. It practically begged him to take it inside. House stared at it, conflicted. A small note attached to the handle caught his eye. Balancing the grocery bag against his hip, he bent down.

 ** _Personal Property of Gregory House_**  
 ** _All Others: STEP AWAY FROM THE BOX_**

"Smartass," he mumbled while tugging off the note. With a well-placed tip of his cane he sent the Snitch sliding merrily down the hallway to an unsuspecting neighbor.

House turned on the radio as he headed for the kitchen, catching up with _Prescription_ while stashing food in the fridge and pantry.

The streaming sunlight felt warm when he passed by the bank of windows to the bedroom. That was one of the features he liked best about the place. That and the occasional whiff of Wilson embedded in the upholstery and mattress.

He missed his spacious rooftop home, the sprawling terrace, and the bird's eye view; he hated that his neighbors were a mere wall away, their voices and cooking odors infiltrating his personal space. But, he was burdened with Amber's apartment. As her "employer" he had cosigned for her. Wilson not only dosed him with the bitter truth, but had packed up his belongings and left him with the remainder of the lease.

Before the move, finalizing the overdue paperwork on Cuddy's suit was his first official baby step.

Spread-eagled on the bed he fought to stay awake as Anna threatened Brock with a gun. The next thing he knew, a not so gentle knock startled him awake. Probably a neighbor with the Snitch. He punched the pillow and turned onto his side.

The hammering persisted like the never-ending nagging of an annoying wife. House's eyes sprang open.

He snapped off the radio when he reached the living room. At the door he shouted a general purpose greeting although he was ninety-nine percent sure who it was. "Get lost!"

"House," came the muffled reply.

Make that one hundred percent. House pressed his palm against the door undecided about what to do with his second uninvited guest of the day.

"House. Please."

He opened the door slowly. Just a crack until he could see Wilson's face. The hardness around the mouth and eyes at their last meeting had melted away. He appeared contrite.

Wilson held up a bottle of vintage wine. "Housewarming gift."

House released his grip on the knob. "Scotch would've been better." He went to the couch while Wilson hunted through cabinets and drawers for glasses and a corkscrew. "The landlord told you I moved in?"

"And Cuddy."

"Which one?"

"Both." Wilson handed him a goblet of cabernet and sat beside him, fingers wrapped around the stem of his untouched glass.

The rich ruby color spoke volumes about its pedigree. House casually swirled the liquid and sniffed.

When Wilson raised his glass encouragingly in a toast, House felt a prickling sensation crawl up the back of his neck. Poison might be going too far, but drugging wasn't. "If I drink this will I wake up strapped to a horse at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby?"

The "I-don't-even-know-where-to-begin" look Wilson flashed him was somewhat reassuring.

Wilson lifted his glass again. "To your new home."

The wine went down smoothly. With every sip House's defenses crumbled. He relaxed against the cushions, and―

Wilson's lips pressed against his mouth for countless heartbeats. So soft and gentle House questioned whether it was a kiss. Then Wilson went deeper, and there was no mistaking what it was. Before House could gather his senses, Wilson backed off.

It happened so quickly, House wondered if he had hallucinated it. But Wilson was real. He was radiating heat, breathing.

And he had seen something. The edge of a small bandage had shown from under Wilson's dress shirt. Without asking, he pulled on the fabric to get a better look. A small, faded blue line curled from beneath it. "Biopsy for atypical cells? You owe Artie a kiss, not me."

Wilson cleared his throat. "When you said unusual mole, I didn't expect a caduceus reflected in my shaving mirror. But no, the kiss wasn't a thank you. It was research."

"More research." The small flame of hope within House went up in a wisp of smoke.

"When I heard you moved into Amber's apartment, something clicked. I needed proof."

House's spirits sank to a new low. He was a fool to have fallen for Wilson's Welcome Wagon routine. It was nothing but a Trojan Horse crammed into a wine bottle. If Wilson had figured out...

"It occurred to me that everyone you created had a doppelgänger. Someone modeled after a friend, colleague, or patient from your past. You said you designed Amber specifically for me, so naturally I wondered who the real Amber was. I checked your school and work records, your family. Came up empty-handed. Then I recalled what my mom said at Passover. She asked if you and Amber were related. You're both tall and there was something about the eyes."

Wilson licked his lips as if savoring the ghostly remains of a dessert.

House braced himself.

"You taste like Amber."

House was thankful for his stubble. It obscured the flush of embarrassment that climbed up his cheeks. Fingertips gently brushed his shoulder; he looked up.

"All through the years I said to myself, living with House was enough. Working with House was enough. Amber was enough." Wilson briefly closed his eyes, shutting off the hurt that shone from them. "I was blind. I couldn't believe you felt the same way until I understood what a selfless gift you'd given me." Then Wilson leaned in, and House didn't question what Wilson was doing.

xxx

The little apartment was busy during the weekend. He and Wilson had gone from sofa to bed to sofa with a little somethin' somethin' in the hall until he concluded it was a waste of precious energy to keep count.

Intermissions had been mutually agreed upon. There were time outs for eating; also, cleaning wine stains from the sofa, as long as Wilson volunteered to do it. Long soapy showers led to a mild disagreement. Wilson argued they didn't constitute breaks since he and House were jammed in together and their minds definitely weren't focused on hygiene.

Like a designated carpool driver, Monday morning arrived right on time without apology. While House offered excuses why it was unnecessary to go to work, Wilson rolled out of bed with a soft grunt. As the empty space next to him grew cold, the heavenly scent of sizzling bacon wafted into the room. House smiled as he limped into the hall. He wasn't an automaton, but Wilson knew exactly what buttons to push.

By the time he sat down at the kitchen table his brain cells which had gone AWOL for most of the weekend synapsed to attention. "How close are you with the Cuddys?"

Wilson placed a stack of buttered toast on the table, nudging it slowly toward the center. He shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Not really, but how you answer does. You're evading the question." House tipped back his chair with his good leg. "Which means the Three Witches brewed up a plan to handle Yours Truly."

"Make that one Hardy Boy with half a treasure map." Wilson sat down with a heavy sigh. "Leah takes after Lisa more than you know. Both of them refused to help." He scrubbed his face and scowled. "Amber's death crushed me. When I found out she wasn't real I channeled my hurt into anger. But the more I thought about what you had done, and that I was the only person with a key to your wax museum, I realized there was a subtext." Wilson looked off to the side and shook his head. "Albeit, only a mad genius like you would ever dream up such a deception."

At Wilson's description House nonchalantly covered his traitorous mouth with his hand to hide his smile and nodded.

"After obtaining proof from the Snitch I decided to confront you with the truth, even if it meant you hated me forever. For your sake, I had to be convincing."

"You were." House rubbed his thumb over the grainy oak surface of the table. Wilson had the good sense to look embarrassed. But how could House be furious when he had masterminded Ambergate? Their lives were right out of the pages of a bizarro O. Henry tale.

"Your food is getting cold," House said by way of an apology.

"I'll scramble us more eggs," Wilson answered, visibly relieved. He headed toward the stove.

With a fresh plate in front of him, House continued to digest the new information along with his breakfast. He briefly paused between bites. "I can't believe you used your dead, robot girlfriend to kick my ass to the curb. You're my hero."

Wilson smiled slyly. "Automaton."

xxx

Domestic bliss lasted for exactly four minutes, the time it took House to clean his plate. Someone was banging on the front door, or rather kicking it because the bottom hinge rattled.

Wilson undid his apron.

"Ignore it," House said sharply.

"It might be important," Wilson said, nearing the entry.

Before he could stop himself, House called out, "If it's a box, don't let it in."

Wilson paused. "A box? Seriously?" The door squeaked on the warped hinge. "It's... a box."

"Do not bring it insi―"

A gold leather cube thumped onto the table. "Remarkable parlor trick, House. How did you do it?" Wilson pointed to a tag.

House was about to unleash a cutting remark, but Wilson was smiling his rapturous, "I'm engaged" grin, which made him suspicious. What was the Snitch up to? He lifted the strip of parchment to better read the note. He flinched when he saw the color red.

Then he smiled, quite possibly as stupidly as Wilson when he realized the Snitch had granted him a glimpse into the future.

 _ **Property of Gregory House and James Wilson**_


End file.
